Two's Company
by Von
Summary: Dean's time is running out. Sam is falling apart. Bobby is desperate. He solicits help from a British maybe-witch he met years ago and signs a contract of his own with the man's son. Aid, in exchange for Asylum.
1. Chapter 1

AU from the end of fifth year, and SPN is during Dean's last 12 months on Earth. I have dragged HP timeline into line with SPN's, so this takes place in 2007.

My sincerest gratitude to everyone who worked on the Supernatural Wiki Timeline. You have no doubt aided many a fanfic writer, myself amongst them! :)

**Two's Company**

Bobby Singer hung up the phone and focused on breathing slowly and deeply. Sam's frantic voice still ringing in his ears.

Every month or so, Sam had a miniature meltdown about his brother's impending due date but pride (or some other idjit notion, like sparing his brother some pain) kept him from letting Dean see or hear him.

So when Dean was safely wrapped up in alcohol and/or women for the night, Sam would contact Bobby and...

Well, it was messy. He hated the calls, hated feeling so damned useless as one of the boys he loved like a son wept in terror and self-loathing. He could never – would never – tell Sam to stop calling, of course. Even if he could do nothing else, he could listen when Sam had no-one else to turn to.

After all, when Dean was gone.. Sam would need to be able to turn to someone, or they'd loose him for good.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as the last light of day was choked by storm clouds. Bobby stared through the doorway of his living room, eyes tracing the dim light that fell over books that lay in no order whatsoever.

He had scoured everything he had, contacted everyone he knew who might know more. All he'd found were more and more details about the kind of things Dean would face in the pit. Every bit of it just made him more desperate.

Maybe _too_ desperate.

Moving to the bookshelf, he withdrew an emergency stash of blessed whiskey and took a swig as he tried not to look at the envelope sitting innocently on his coffee table.

It had arrived with the regular mail, but bore no stamp. The address was 'Mr Robert Singer, America'.

It was from a wizard.

He had willingly contacted a man he'd only allowed to live in a moment of weakness. Even now, almost two decades later, he still didn't know if he'd done the right thing or if the charismatic bastard had just pulled the wool over his eyes. For all he knew, he'd allowed the man to continue doing evil across the pond.

He'd only written to him in a moment of weakness, aided by alcohol and fuelled by the _need_ to do something - anything. He gave the boys crap for the stupid shit they'd do on behalf of each other, but it seemed he was just as bad.

Now, he couldn't decide if he was avoiding opening the reply because he regretted ever making contact, or because he didn't want loose the last bit of hope he had left.

"Suck it up, you old idjit." He growled to himself, capping the bottle and storing it back in the bookshelf. He turned to face the envelope, stalking forward with knife in hand and grim resolution in his eyes.

He picked it up. Slit it open.

Read.

Stared.

"Holy mother of..." 

_Two's Company_

Sixteen year old Harry Potter rolled his wand between his fingertips as he stared at the newspapers in front of him. The Wizarding world seemed to be trying to pack an entire year's worth of turbulent opinions, half-truths and lies into one Summer break.

Headlines screamed his status as 'The Chosen One', some articles bemoaning their fate to have a criminal youth be the Wizarding world's only chance of victory against the Dark (the very Dark they had previously refused to believe in, of course, though _that_ wasn't mentioned). One or two articles threw their support behind him, in a blatant attempt to draw readers who wanted to be comforted rather than frightened.

None of them apologised – or even drew attention to – the lies they had happily spewed about him for years.

The wand in his hand vibrated slightly as the magic under his skin twisted and writhed in tightly controlled anger. Dumbledore had arranged for his underage restriction to be done away with, but he'd hardly had to work for it. The government right now would give him a bloody dragon to ride on, if he said he was going to fly it to kill Voldemort.

Having his wand almost constantly in hand had become something of a pacifier. It was.. comforting, to know that something else felt his rage and hurt over the wizarding world's greedy, controlling treatment of him – even if that something was essentially an extension of himself.

Having his wand in hand was almost like having a friend at his side, ready and eager to defend him.

Almost.

He received letters almost every day now, dropped off under his window by his rotating guard. The guards themselves didn't deign to speak to him of course, and the strict pattern of the friends who wrote to him indicated that Hermione had drawn up a schedule and enforced it in an attempt to alleviate the anger he'd felt last year.

He wasn't sure he felt any better this time around. What was quantity of letters when you knew they were being forced, as platitudes? Where was the pleasure in reading about how bored Ron was, how he couldn't think of anything to say that he hadn't already said, or reading about Hermione's summation of the latest book she was reading? Ron's were empty and Hermione's had all the personal touch of a book report.

Ginny occasionally wrote to him, but the letters had an odd 'dear diary' feel to them. That wasn't to say they weren't more interesting than his best friends' (if only because they were slightly more infrequent) but it was frankly a little weird to read a rambling letter about trying different nail polishes, the article in Witch Weekly about corsets coming back into fashion and whether Ginny would look good with a bob cut or if it would make her look like a tomato.

He received a grand total of five letters from members of the DA, expressing their gratitude for his lessons. The stiffness and detached politeness of their letters just depressed him further, as he realised that of all the people he had that adventure with last year.. none of them really knew him or felt comfortable enough with him to just chat normally in a letter. He was grateful they took the time (and obviously cared enough) to write, but sad that they wrote to a teacher, not to a peer.

Luna sent him a drawing of a creature he couldn't find anywhere in his CoMC books.

From the Order, he heard nothing.

From Dumbledore, he heard nothing.

From Remus, there was an almost tangible silence. With each day that passed, Harry convinced himself further of Remus' utter hatred of him.

So life was sucky enough, thanks. Dark Lord out to torture and kill him? Check. Awkward, detached friends and social network? Check. Complete lack of role models or adult support? Double check with a side helping of shameful grief because even if Sirius hadn't been a very good godfather, at least he'd tried and _Harry had gotten him killed_.

On top of all that.. well. Frankly, the direction these papers were going in scared him. The hysteria was getting ugly. There seemed to be no sort of press release or public control executed by Dumbledore (which sometimes made Harry so speechless with incredulous rage, he had to put down his wand before it blew a hole through the wall by itself) and once the press had gotten wind of Harry's exclusion from the under aged magic law, they leapt upon it as the beginning of the end – of Harry preparing to do battle against Voldemort, instead of the most basic allowance for a sixteen year old who had a history of being attacked.

Harry was scared of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, but he was _more_ scared by the Wizarding world's irrational reactions and the Order of the Phoenix's singular incompetence in apparently everything they did. That the Ministry was incompetent went without saying.

He felt like the whole world was waiting for him to step outside and destroy Voldemort for them. And it made him so _angry_. They hadn't faced Voldemort! They hadn't screamed under his torture curse, they had no idea - no, they were _wilfully ignoring_ - how ludicrous the idea of a kid his age destroying Voldemort _was_.

They didn't _want_ to know. They didn't want to think about anything that might upset them. They wanted to believe the 'Champion of Light' would save them, that all they had to do was wait and a fairy-tale ending would eventuate. After all, if a baby with _no_ training had managed it once, how hard could it be for him now, with five years of the "greatest magical education in the world" under his belt?

He couldn't shake the belief that it was only a matter of time before they tried to **force** him to fight for them. And that time was running out.

At most, he had a year. One year until he was a legal adult, and there'd be no excuse in their eyes.

Reflexively, one hand lifted to touch the lump under his shirt, where an enchanted moleskin pouch hung low on an unbreakable cord from his neck. The pouch was slightly smaller than his palm, but in it were stored his most valuable possessions along with most of the contents of his vault.

Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Golden Boy of Gryffindor, Savior of the Wizarding World, was going to run. 

_Two's Company_

Hedwig had brought the letter.

Harry didn't know how she'd known to get a letter from someone _he'd_ never even met and which wasn't even addressed to him, but the fact that she _had_ known and had done so had firmly cemented the fact that she was the single greatest owl in existence.

When Harry had first started planning his escape, he'd though about running to France, or maybe Ireland. Somewhere relatively easy to get to, and where he could get a job and hide amongst the Muggles.

The letter from Mr Singer had changed all that.

The letter had been short and kinda rude, considering the writer was asking for help. It was also a golden opportunity.

Mr Singer had written to Harry's father, asking for help. His return address was in South Dakota, America.

The Ministry of Magic couldn't legally or physically operate in America. No witch or wizard could. Although Binns never mentioned it, the American civil war was covered briefly in their fourth year textbook, and Harry had been plenty lonely enough to read it that year.

In the Muggle world, the soon-to-be Americans had won their war of independence. In the Wizarding world, they'd lost. Britain had won and been very unforgiving about it. The book didn't talk about _how_ they'd done it, but from the end of the war all wizard magic cast in America just... went _wrong_. Dangerously wrong. With unreliable or dysfunctional magic, most witches and wizards – even dark ones – didn't want to or couldn't live in a country brimming with unregulated vampires and other dark creatures.

Unable to protect themselves, unable to really even 'be' what they were, the wizards had departed the country en mass. What remained behind was, according to his history book, a melting pot of rare and dangerous creatures.

Harry would take it with a smile, if it meant no Death Eater could track him, no Ministry official could compel him - no Order could kidnap him. Whether he eventually fought Voldemort or not, he wanted it to be _his choice_, when _he_ was ready.

Harry had written back, promising his absolute effort to help in exchange for legally-binding asylum in Mr Singer's home country - America.

Less than a week later, Hedwig returned with not only Mr Singer's agreement, but the first of many legal forms. The easiest - maybe only - way for Harry to gain legal asylum was through the process of adoption.

Adoption had been something Harry had craved throughout his childhood. It had kinda been about someone wanting him for _him_, but mostly it had been about escape.

And now, it was _all_ about escape, a business transaction and nothing more.

Within three weeks from the day he'd first received Mr Singer's letter, Aunt Petunia was gladly signing the last of the very Muggle forms, citing some rubbish story about how she knew Robert Singer was a good, stern man who would be the best guardian for her unruly, unwanted nephew in his difficult teenaged years. She also added her own note about how after the guardianship was finalised, she would consider Harry dead to her and never wanted to hear about or from him again.

If nothing else, Harry figured, hopefully the American authorities would accept the adoption simply to get a minor out of a house that clearly hated him. The fact that he had no medical records at all to send and no scholastic ones after his required primary education had finished should also help them decide that _Petunia_ was the problem and not him.

Harry hadn't been able to use Hedwig for the Muggle forms of course, but the Dursleys were eager to pay top dollar to have them sent express. The whole household was cheerful in a way Harry couldn't ever remember seeing, with even Dudley smiling more and actually _thanking_ his mother when she put food in front of him. Vernon whistled as he spent his Sunday off waxing the car and painting the fence and Petunia was humming as she took measurements for new curtains and couch covers.

Harry was just surprised that their obvious joy actually hurt him a little.

Still, Harry had put Hedwig to good use in the interim. The arrangement was an escape for him, certainly, but it was also a binding agreement. He had no doubt that if he _didn't_ help, Mr Singer would kick his butt to the sidewalk and without magic, Harry probably wouldn't survive without being deported back to England.

So, he carefully drafted several letters to his friends, Hermione in particular. He kept them vague, whilst also implying his desire to research and study more. He outright asked for help from some and to others he left it implied that he simply needed their advice.

It worked better than expected. Hermione, somewhat predictably, had gone above and beyond his requests and sent him a wide variety of books she'd bought for him. Most were useless considering where he was going, but that in itself was a helpful smokescreen for when the Order inevitably realised he was gone and went looking for him.

Others were not so useless. Potion books, 'how to' herbology books (aimed at growing your own potion ingredients), books on travel and defence with an eye to purchasable items more than spells, catalogues for various stores and pamphlets for Britain's singular magical library were all shrunk and packed away into his moleskin pouch (thank-you owl order catalogues).

Some of the other people he'd tapped for information - some grateful DA members including Neville, but no-one who was connected to the Order in any way - shared with him stories of their past trips, unknowingly educating him on forms of magical transport and currency exchange and just how unhelpful Goblins could be.

Again, most of their information was intended as a smokescreen. Most of them hadn't been further than parts of Europe, and Harry hoped that anyone asking after their conversations would be convinced that Harry's interest in rural Russia meant that he was planning to hide there.

He hadn't mentioned America to any of them, though Luna had shared in passing that she and her father had decided _not_ to go hunting gulping plimpys in Canada, because the magical section there was solidly French and neither of them could stand Frenchmen. Or Frenchwomen. Or Frenchchildren.

That had been one bias Harry hadn't been aware the bug-eyed girl had held, but the throw-away information was also good to know.

There _was_ a magical settlement in Canada and, if they were as French as Luna claimed, they probably wouldn't put up with any British wizards harassing them in the search for Harry Potter.

Of course, Harry himself didn't speak more French than it took to introduce himself and ask for a glass of water, but that could be overcome. He hoped. Maybe one of the many books Hermione had sent him would mention overcoming language barriers.

The time flew by, however, leaving him little to actually _study_ the material sent to him. When he wasn't reading the mail he received, carefully filtering the information he needed from it, or triple-checking his outgoing mail to ensure he wasn't spilling the beans by accident, he was making plans or second-guessing himself.

His Hogwarts trunk was all packed up in the corner of his room, filled with everything he wasn't bringing with him – which wasn't much. His cauldrons (different type required every second year) were designed to be resistant to magic and couldn't be shrunk enough to shove into his moleskin pouch and thus were being left behind. He had also packed almost all of his hand-me-downs from Dudley into the trunk, along with all his Wizarding clothes – school robes & dress robes.

Stuffed into his old primary schoolbag were two changes of clothes that almost fit him, along with his toothbrush and comb – no need to rub his magic in Mr Singer's face, after all. It was clear from the tone of his letters that he didn't like the stuff, but was desperate enough to ask for help from it.

After lengthy consideration, Harry had decided not to keep his standard books of spells(there'd be no use for them in a land where spells went wrong) but figured that his potion and herbology related ones would be useful. Most of his defence books were rubbish (or, again, filled with spells that wouldn't work), so he left them. The divination books were originally packed into the trunk before it occurred to him that maybe Mr Singer wanted some kind of precognitive help (which Harry would quite frankly be useless at, but no point saying so now) and so were then moved to his pouch. The monster book of monsters was a tough call – the damned thing was a menace and lived tightly secured by his belt, often shaking and growling on its own. But America was supposedly full of creatures used to preying on humans – he couldn't shake the notion that the book would be useful, even if it was a pain.

It ended up in the pouch. So did his invisibility cloak and his photo album. His firebolt was probably still locked in a dungeon somewhere in Hogwarts, so that wasn't an option. He kept his omnioculars and one of his Gryffindor scarves but everything else he owned went into the trunk. On the top, before he closed the lid, he left a short letter explaining himself.

He lived constantly ready to run, always wearing his moleskin pouch and only ever keeping his wand and a pamphlet out of his travel bag. When he was sick of looking at advertisements (that always changed), he snuck his aunt's old Women's Weekly magazines out of the bin and flipped through them to distract himself.

Then, finally, it was time.

His Uncle came home beaming like a proud father as he handed Harry his new passport and plane tickets. His flight left early the next morning. By this time tomorrow, he would be in America, with a new guardian, after having turned his back on his world.

He tried to feel excited, but just felt sick. 

_Two's Company_

Bobby tried not to feel guilty as he pulled into the airport parking bay. He was over two hours late to pick up the witch-or wizard, whatever-kid that he'd gone insane enough to adopt. He hadn't meant to be late – for one thing he'd wanted to arrive early enough to set up some stealthy protections first, but there had been an emergency with the boys and their lives had been more important than playing chauffeur. Besides, the kid's father had spun all sorts of tales about magical tracking and transport abilities. Even as he was reading out the chant to a concussed Sam over the phone, he half expected an angry knock at his front door.

But the kid hadn't shown, so here he was – unshaven and unprepared – haulin' ass through the airport and maybe half expecting there to be zombies or something wandering around.

There wasn't.

The local airport saw a steady flux of passengers, but not enough for people to linger long. It was easy to spot the lone person waiting in the arrivals lounge, feet tucked up on his seat with the tell-tale flexibility of youth, ratty bag on the chair next to him, one hand fisted tightly around the handle to protect it from theft.

As he got closer, Bobby could see that the kid was.. asleep. Or at least, he looked like it. Shoulders moving slightly with steady breaths, awkward but absolutely still posture.

Bobby cleared his throat loudly and felt a little guilty – though no less suspicious – when the kid jerked sharply awake. Wide, unnaturally green eyes shot to his own, framed by ugly glasses and long lashes. Even without having met the boy's father, Bobby would have wagered money the kid had inherited his mother's eyes.

Bobby didn't say a word as the teen scrambled to his feet. And what a skinny little thing he was! Short, too. It went beyond youth and into the realm of insufficient food. Then again, for all he knew this was a normal childhood look for this type of magic-user.

"Harry Potter?" He checked, knowing his eyes were hard – every bit the hunter. The kid swallowed and nodded.

"Mr Singer?" The boy's voice was light and respectful, with an undercurrent of steel.

Bobby snorted. If this kid was on the level, he'd fit right in.

"Yeah, that's me. You got everything?"

A silent nod, the small carry-on bag lifted up onto his shoulder. Great, they'd probably have to stop by the shops on the way home.

"Good. Let's get goin'." He hesitated over turning his back to the witch, but the kid was gonna be _living_ with him, so...

He turned and strode back towards the exit, sharp ears hearing the quick patter of shorter legs catching up to him. "An' call me Bobby."

**Two's Company**

This story mostly revolves around Harry and Bobby living on the edge of the show, with Sam and Dean and major events popping in every now and then.


	2. Chapter 2

If you haven't already seen Lamapan's awesome sketches of the interior of Bobby's house, please do take a look! lamapan . Deviantart gallery /

They were beyond helpful in writing this chapter. I adapted her depiction of the attic a little because the viewing railing and inaccessible 2/3rds of the windowed space didn't make sense to me. I also used reference shots from the outside of Bobby's house (gosh, he has a lot of boarded up windows, doesn't he?) and his car yard - which I think is actually two different areas for filming, but whatever.

Thanks for the great feedback for this story. I'm really enjoying writing it. It's so refreshing to be able to do something in a different fandom. :)

**Two's Company**

_12th July, 2007_

The kid was annoyingly quiet.

Alright alright, if he'd been chatty then he'd think he was _annoyingly_ chatty. Sure him, he wasn't good with kids. Hadn't ever needed to be, except with John's rugrats and those kids had been alternatively miniature hunters almost as surly as _he_ was or poster-children for adorable, depending on how much hell they felt like raising.

The skinny thing sitting self-contained and stiff in the passenger seat of his cab was neither.

"Y'need anything from the shops?"

The kid gave shake of stupidly long, messy black hair.

"No, thank you."

There followed a long stretch of silence, broken only by the chug of the engine and passing cars before he leaned forward slightly to flip on the radio.

"-**ultimate goal for our children's sexuality is that they will be able to see-" **the radio blared, loud enough that the sudden noise made _him_ swerve the car and the kid slap his hands over his ears. Cursing, Bobby focused on _not_ running them into oncoming traffic before dealing with the problem. **"-as Christians, we want to help them understand that sexual intercourse is an act of love shared between-"**

"Feel free to turn it down!" He growled over the racket. Goddamn Dean Winchester, next time he saw that boy he was gonna _tan his hide_, onrushing Hell or no. Of all stations for the overgrown brat to prank him with, it _had_ to be the _AFR_.

One of the kid's hands came down from his head to fumble with the controls. His lack of experience was obvious in the wandering trail of his fingers, but made even _more_ painfully explicit when he experimentally turned the volume knob _up_.

"**-SACRED ACT SYMBOLISES THE SPIRITUAL UNION THAT WILL OCCUR BETWEEN CHRIST AND HIS BRIDE, THE CHURCH, UPON HIS RETURN TO EARTH-" **The radio blasted, the sound turning tinny as the truck's old speakers were pushed past their tolerances. The kid, unhelpfully, had reacted by slapping his hand back over his ear instead of, say, _turning the knob the other way_.

With a bitten off curse, his own ears aching, Bobby snapped out a hand to switch the whole damned thing off.

This time the silence was ringing. God help the kid if he'd triggered permanent tinnitus.

"…I'm sorry." The apology was unexpectedly meek and the quick glance he took showed a matching contrition in body language and facial expression. Unable to justify verbally eviscerating him he instead released most of his aggravation in a heavy sigh and just nodded.

Forget shopping. He just wanted to get home, run the kid through a few tests then get started on working out just how much actual _use_ he was gonna be.

Let the kid work out how insufficient his packing had been at his own cost.

_Two's Company_

This may have just been a business arrangement, but Mr Singer's impatient, grudging attitude was really driving home the reality. He didn't _want_ Harry in his space, not one little bit, but Harry had pushed for it in exchange for help the man desperately needed.

No wonder the guy resented every breath he took.

And _then_ he'd gone and done a Ron with the radio. He hadn't meant to! He wasn't some idiot wizard (no offence to Ron, or Ron's dad), it was just that Uncle Vernon's volume dial turned the _other_ way. And then he'd flinched from the sudden blast of sound, Mr Singer stopping it before he could get his hand down to try again.

_What a wonderful first impression I'm making_, he thought unhappily, turning to look out the window. The world was dreary, a slight smudge in the air that made green grass and passing car lots look dusty and tired. It only got worse the further they drove, with less cultivated land and more industrial wastes. Eventually, though, it turned into farmland. It wasn't as lush as he was used to, with prickly tall trees breaking up row after row of cabbage and carrots, corn and tomatoes. Finally, as the daylight weakened and shadows grew longer, they slowed and entered a long driveway over which a rusted old sign arched.

_SINGER AUTO SALVAGE_

On either side of the driveway, _piles_ of cars were set about like Dudley's discarded possessions. In between them, looking so grotty and neglected that he couldn't imagine why they were even there in the first place, were sheets of metal and timber, piles of bricks and stacks of barrels. A small shed off to the side looked like an office with larger sheets of wavy metal stretching from it to form some kind of shelter. For more expensive cars, maybe?

Then they were pulling up to the house, large and black against the oncoming night, easily two to three times the size of the Dursley's home. Only a single light was on in the main room, spilling a yellow glow through two front windows.

"Here we are." Mr Singer grunted, parking further along and switching off the engine with a sharp jerk of his wrist. "Wipe your feet comin' in."

Harry slid out the passenger side, dragging his bag and locking the door behind him. Underfoot, dead and damp leaves crunched. Bugs were filling the air with a sort of metallic hissing and in the distance he could swear he heard frogs croaking. He glanced around as he followed Mr Singer but slowed as he spotted a row of doghouses set 90 degrees against the far edge of the house. They were slightly raised off the ground, sturdy and obviously for very _large_ animals.

"You have dogs?" He asked cautiously. A lifetime of Aunt Marge's little treasures left a lingering scar.

"Used to." Mr Singer grunted, stomping up the porch and into the house. He let the door swing shut behind him and Harry had to scramble to catch it, slipping inside and closing it behind him with a soft click.

_Dark_ and _cramped_ and _slightly musty_ was his first impression of his new home. Contrary to Aunt Petunia's obsessive cleanliness and light-coloured walls, Mr Singer's place was cluttered and dark and cramped. The floor was clear but every shelf, desk or table was piled high with books, papers, bottles or random junk that it still _felt_ like you couldn't move without hitting something.

He paused in the middle of the front room - what might be the living room, based upon the single couch crammed against the window.

"Whattya waitin' for, Thanksgiving? Get in here." Mr Singer called from the kitchen and Harry hastened to join him. The man was watching him intently through the wide doorway. It was a little creepy. The table in the kitchen, pushed to the side, was empty except for two glasses of water - one of which Mr Singer pushed towards him.

Suspicion prickled down his spine.

"No thank you. I'm not thirsty." He was, actually, but he'd rather drink from a tap or something. It occurred to him suddenly that he was in the home of a complete stranger, in another country, with no neighbours and with the only people who knew where he was _also_ being very happy to forget he ever existed.

Oh, and the stranger only barely tolerated unnatural things in general and Harry in particular because Harry hadn't given him much choice in the matter.

"It's holy water." Mr Singer ground out. "It won't hurt you 'less you've not been honest with me about exactly what you are."

Harry frowned at him.

"Actually, Mr Singer, I think now would be a good time to finalise our contract." He said firmly, swinging his bag onto the kitchen table and rummaging in it for the pre-spelled scroll he'd had mailed to him earlier in the summer. It was a magical contract, one designed to bind both parties to their word. It was apparently very common in the Wizarding world, for anything involving paid services. One of the reasons the Burrow looked so charmingly odd (and unstable) was because of a poorly-worded one that had allowed the Weasley's builder to do a slap-dash job.

He and Mr Singer had come to an agreement about the wording of their binding contract by mail, during the set-up period. But, it had to be signed at the same time using the same one-use contract quill, in order to actually work.

He unrolled the scroll and lay it flat on the table, followed by its counterpart red quill above it.

"Please read it over, then sign your name at the bottom. I'll do the same and then we're _both_ protected."

He expected the man to refuse, but instead he got a narrow-eyed look of assessment followed by a perusal of the contract.

Harry had copied out their final agreed version, word for word, in his very neatest handwriting. In essence it promised that _he_ would do everything he could to assist Bobby Singer in protecting or rescuing Dean Winchester from Hell, in exchange for Bobby Singer to protect _him_ by legally adopting him and providing him all reasonable and ethical care for a human minor.

Harry had been _very _careful to ensure he wouldn't be trading one rotten home life for another. He'd learned from the Dursley's example that _being_ human didn't always equate to being _treated_ human.

And, okay, 'reasonable and ethical care' had been Mr Singer's wording - he'd seemed a bit suspicious that Harry would abuse anything more, but it was _still_ better than what he'd had before.

"Looks fine." Mr Singer eventually agreed, after reading it twice - once under a coloured light as he muttered under his breath. Harry rolled his eyes but picked up the quill when Mr Singer seemed in no hurry to actually _sign_.

"This is a one-use contract blood quill. It'll hurt a little, as if you're writing on your own hand, but it's gotta be done this way if you want those 'no betraying me to evil' clauses to stick."

Unexpectedly, the man snorted something that came close to amusement. He plucked the quill from Harry's fingers and signed his name in a rapid, illegible squiggle. The skin of his hand was rough and a bit too dirty to see any visible echo of his signature but the tightening of his jaw gave evidence to his brief pain. Harry took the quill from him as soon as he finished and quickly signed his own name. Against his paler skin, the red and raised echo signature was much more visible. He didn't have time to consider it, however, as the contract itself began to glow a deep red the second the quill lifted off from the last letter of his name.

Man and teen watched the red of their blood seep into every letter of the contract, their mutual agreement of the terms being judged as true and bound together. Harry felt it settle along his shoulders, the faintest of pressure at the edge of his mind and magic. He'd promised effort, active help, and the contract would compel him to keep his promise. Already, he felt his fingers itch to start picking up books, felt his mind come to focus on a problem which had only been very vaguely described before now.

Mr Singer rolled his own shoulders, although Harry had no idea if he felt it too.

Still, wanting to get on with it, he picked up his glass of water and swallowed it back, no longer worried about anything that might be in it. The contract would compel Mr Singer to knock it from his hands if he knew it contained anything 'unreasonable or unethical'. It just tasted like slightly cool, slightly stale water with an unpleasantly metallic aftertaste. Mr Singer took the empty glass from him and dropped it in the sink without a word.

"Alright." He said, coming back to the table. He pulled a small leather book from inside his jacket and sat down, tucking the contract away into the same pocket. Harry sat across from him and focused on the book flipped open and around for him to examine.

"I told you before that Dean Winchester made a deal with a demon, and that we need to break it somehow. Here's the backstory:"

Harry's eyes widened as Mr Singer told him of two men, brothers, who had fought evil all their lives. Whose father had sold his soul to save his eldest son's life, who had then turned around almost a year later and done the same thing for his younger brother.

Harry rather thought it sounded like he did it for _himself_, considering his brother was already dead and gone, but he wasn't about to say as much to Mr Singer. Not when the man looked torn between grief and anger at having to talk about it at all.

Dean had sold his soul on the 2nd of May. It was now July 12th. They had less than 295 days to break his deal, only 42 weeks, or Dean would be dragged to Hell and tortured forever.

Harry swallowed. Coming here had been about getting _away_ from people who wanted him to protect them. Now another person's salvation relied on him - but this time he'd brought it upon himself.

"Take the book." Mr Singer pushed it closer to him. "It has the exact wording, or as exact as Dean will admit to, along with all known or suspected clauses - such as Dean's own inability to try to escape the contract."

Harry blinked up at the man.

"Specifying that he can't try…" He said cautiously. "Sounds like they're afraid if he _did, _he'd manage it. And if _he_ can…"

For the first time, Mr Singer smiled at him. It was short, but genuine.

"_That's_ the kind of thinkin' we need. So, what do _you_ need?"

Harry rubbed a hand over his face. The flight had been long, his nap in the airport had been brief and stressful. He was exhausted. But the contract was in force, so he pushed it back to focus on his task.

"I need to do some research. I've never _heard_ of demons or deals before. I only know the basics of Wizarding history in America - that we haven't been able to use our magic here since the British Wizards won the magical side of the rebellion. I mean, war of independence. I can owl away to buy or borrow books, but I sent my own owl to my friend so she couldn't be used to track me. I'll have to buy a new one locally."

"Okay." Mr Singer seemed completely on board, hands clasped on the table, body leaning in. "How do we make that happen?"

Harry shifted, his back straightening.

"There are three magical settlements in Canada, but the largest is in Manitoba." He reported. He knew that from both his own careful investigation and Luna's breezy complaints. "That's our best bet for a localised library too. Magical books aren't mass-produced on the same scale as Muggle books, which makes them more expensive _and_ harder to get a hold of. That said, anything written about American problems - especially after the fall of the Wizard colonies here - is most likely to be stored in _Canadian_ libraries rather than British ones."

Mr Singer nodded thoughtfully.

"Well, I reckon it won't do us any good to jump in blind right away." He stated, tugging his cap down absentmindedly. "I'm thinkin' _you_ should get a better handle on what we'll be lookin' for, and _I'll_ get a better handle on exactly what sort of things your people can and can't do. Between us, we won't waste too much time lookin' in the wrong places."

Harry nodded. Mr Singer nodded back, then stood.

"Right now though, I reckon it's time you got some shut-eye. Fatigue won't help us none. Grab your bag 'n follow me."

A little surprised, Harry obeyed. Mr Singer led him back into the main room, then up a flight of stairs to the second floor. The hallway there ran along the front of the house, where the wall around the windows was reinforced and boxes of gun ammunition were stored in neat little stacks. Harry eyed the boxes of bullets with unabashed fascination. He'd heard that all Americans had guns of course, but it was a bit strange to be faced with evidence of it, as casual as cutlery.

The hallway snaked around, deeper into the house.

"Bathroom." Mr Singer grunted, waving his hand at a closed door on the right. "My room." He gestured at a matching door on the left. "You can enter if you need to, but it had better be an emergency." Harry nodded silently. The next door on the right was ignored and then they were in a large open room at the back of the house. Dust cloths covered tables and furniture, windows were boarded up and boxes and cabinets competed for space alongside the walls.

Harry could see no other doors. Was this dusty, large room with no door where he would be staying? Would he be allowed to unblock the windows?

Mr Singer was reaching up for something. A string?

_Oh_.

With a yank, a wooden ladder swung stiffly down from the ceiling, unfolding to reveal a space above it.

_From the cupboard under the stairs to the space in the attic_. Harry thought ruefully. _I suppose, technically, I'm moving up in life_.

Following Mr Singer into the space revealed it to be _much_ better than he was expecting. Far from the dust-clogged room below, the attic space was clean and open. The roof slanted sharply on the left except for a vaguely rectangular section where a mild bay window lifted it. It was the only window in the room that opened. The one directly behind the entrance to the attic was completely boarded up, a large rectangle of cork glued on top of the heavy wooden beams.

"I thought you might like to put pictures up or something." Mr Singer grunted, seeing him looking. Harry couldn't help but slant him an incredulous look. That was _not_ the sort of forethought he'd have expected from a man who'd seemed so utterly unwelcoming.

And yet… a lot of little touches spoke of similar forethought. The centre of the attic space was divided in two. The half closest to the entrance was like a miniature library space, with a collection of bookshelves, one large table and a comfy-looking chair, all with good lighting which had obviously been recently installed. The other half was a closed-off little bathroom all of his own, visible through its open door. Harry crossed over to it and found that Mr Singer had squeezed in a combination shower and bath under the narrow and high window looking out over the front of the salvage yard. The loo was against the wall by the door and a small vanity was against the wall between it and the bath, a mirror glued above it. Everything was obviously second-hand and DIY installed but it was _also_ obviously a new addition, specifically for him. Back in the main room, again towards the front of the house and up against the forward most picture window was a bed already made up with simple, well-washed cotton sheets and blankets. There was a rickety side-table by the head, with a lamp on it, and a chest of drawers next to _that_ for his clothes.

A rectangular shag rug that looked very old but mostly dust-free softened the harsh wooden floor and - Harry imagined - would make winter a little more tolerable underfoot. At the foot of his bed, the chimney from the downstairs fireplace ran up through the attic and out to the roof. It would help warm the place too and for the first time, Harry really and consciously realised that he _wouldn't_ be going back to Hogwarts this year. For all intents and purposes, he was a high school dropout. Even if everything went well with his deal with Mr Singer… at the age of 18, Mr Singer would no longer be legally obligated to keep him. He'd be alone in the world, probably still with people trying to find and/or kill him and with _no_ qualifications to help him survive.

He drew a deep, steadying breath. There was no point borrowing trouble. He'd made his bed already.

It was time to lie in it.

"It's a little smaller than it used to be." Mr Singer broke into his silent contemplation. "I added more insulation. Your bathroom is over mine, which means your study area is mostly over my bedroom so I'll thank you to keep it down after I've gone to bed. I sleep light." There was a slightly sour twist to his expression, as though he fully expected to get no sleep ever again. He gestured to the wall of the study area.

"As you can probably guess, I've walled off a third of the attic space for storage. I did run a line from downstairs up and to the desk, though, if you wind up needing one of them internet connections. I expect _Sam_ will insist on it, and I'd rather you not trekking up and downstairs at all hours to use the one in the living room. That said, we'll deal with it if and when it happens and it will _only_ be for research, y'hear me?"

Harry nodded, baffled. He knew Dudley had his own internet-connected computer but, embarrassed as he was to admit it, Harry didn't actually properly understand what it was beyond a sort of always-on telephone line for computers. He knew how to type and such from Primary school, but he'd just… never been _allowed_ to do anything more, not at school and certainly not at the Dursley's. It was like the television. Theoretically entertaining, but something that existed outside his everyday experience.

Mr Singer unwound a little, fidgeting with his hat.

"That's good. Uh, there's protections at all the windows and entrances, so if shit hits the fan and I ain't around to tell you otherwise, head up to your room and close the ladder behind you. The string pulls up from this side. Uh, the side window opens onto the roof-" He gestured at the oddly sticking-out window, which looked out over very little car yard and quite a lot of farm land. Under it was a cushioned bench and four low shelving units on either side that could double as tables. "So if you need to get out in an emergency, you can git out there, then go up and toward the front of the house. It's a low drop to the porch roof and then from there to the ground."

Harry nodded, taking it in and tracing the route in his mind as he looked up at the steeply sloping ceiling and over to the bathroom.

"There's also another exit point over here." Mr Singer moved to the end of his bed and Harry followed. Tucked away between the chimney and the wall, hidden by the placement of his bed, was a trapdoor. Mr Singer lifted it to reveal a ladder that ran down a narrow chute.

"It's like a fire escape. It don't go all the way down unless it's got some weight on it, so you can go _down_, but not _up_. From below, it just looks like a ventilation shaft. It comes out eventually at the storm cellar doors - which is where you should head if you ever see a tornado. They don't come 'round often, but when they're close enough to _see_ you'd best get your behind underground, pronto."

Harry nodded again. It was kind of cool, a little secret escape hatch - without _magic_. Leaning this close, he could see what looked like runes carved into the trapdoor itself. And the legs of his bed. And the side of the chimney. He glanced at his new adopted… well. Parent.

Had they always been there? Or were they there for _him_? Did Mr Singer think he could contain Harry's unnaturalness?

Then again, as a Muggle who dealt with uncontrolled - and violent - supernatural phenomena every other day… maybe he _could_.

It was an unnerving thought.

_He can't do anything _bad_ to me_. He reminded himself. _He signed the contract. 'Reasonable and ethical'. Worst case, I just need to be out of here before his side of the contract expires._

"Well." Mr Singer groaned as he stood, his knees cracking. Harry backed quickly away, resuming normal polite distance. "I'll leave you to settle in. If you're hungry, grab something from the kitchen. Don't leave food anywhere but the bin, or we'll get rats comin' in. Anythin' you wanna ask?"

There was probably something he _should_, but his mind was blank. Wordlessly, Harry shook his head.

"Alright then. G'night."

He watched his new guardian leave then dropped his bag by his bed. He should probably have a shower but he was so _tired__…_

He toed off his shoes and crawled between the covers, softer and more comforting than anything the Dursleys had ever let him have, and blinked up out his window at the early evening stars.

His last thought before he fell asleep was that he was _in America_ and - technically - an American citizen. Even after Mr Singer got rid of him, he'd never… have to… leave…

**Two's Company**

I respectfully sourced some text from one of the shows that runs on the AFR channel - which is a religious radio channel that airs in South Dakota. And yes, I did slightly cherry pick in order to make the experience more uncomfortable for all involved. ^-^

For those who are curious, Harry passed multiple tests by: Entering the house, passing through a devil's trap and drinking a combination of holy water and colloidal silver.


	3. Chapter 3

Cheers for your support on this story. I hope it turns out to be fun all-round. This chapter is pretty slow, you guys know how I like to set things up in the beginning, but I'll start skipping time after this.

**Two****'s Company**

_13th July, 2007_

Harry woke, still dreaming of flight.

For the first time in any summer, for the first time since early in his fourth year of Hogwarts, he woke lethargically. Peacefully. Pleasantly.

Until the contract pressed gently along his shoulders.

"I guess that means it's time to get up." He groaned, struggling out of his deliciously comfortable bed into the cool morning air of his bedroom. He tugged at his shirt and wrinkled his nose at the sour smell that came from nervous sweat (airplanes were alarmingly loud and unsafe-feeling) baked in overnight.

Yeah. Shower first.

He went to his bag to pull out a fresh set of clothes - and paused.

"Bugger." He cursed. _That_ was what Mr Singer had meant, when he'd asked if he needed to go to the shops. Not to get snacks or anything like Dudley would but practical stuff like _clothing_. Which he actually _could_ do with.

Oh well.

His fingers trailed to a side pocket in which almost 120 American dollars were tucked away. When dropping him off at the airport, a jovial Uncle Vernon had handed him a £100 note to 'see that nothing goes wrong' -obviously in terms of Harry having to come _back_, not for his safety - but which Harry had been quick to convert just in case he had to call a taxi from the airport once in America. He would have too, if he hadn't drifted off in the arrivals lounge long enough for Mr Singer to come.

Regardless, although he had a pouch full of wizard gold it was basically useless in the Muggle world. More than one friend had mentioned that Muggles saw galleons as useless pence unless they were spelled into the secret like Muggleborn parents were. So, until he could get to Canada to exchange some, the $120 from his Uncle would be all he had. He was pretty sure the road back into town was reasonably straightforward. He could walk it if he needed to. Buy a few more shirts, maybe even a jacket for when it got cold. As his mind turned to maybe going down today, though, the contract pressed down again.

It wasn't part of what he'd promised. The contract had been _designed_ to not give him much in the way of wriggle room. Going clothes shopping apparently wasn't something he could decide to do any more.

Uneasy, he stood with his change of clothes in hand and dumped them on the edge of the vanity. There was a towel on a hook on the back of the bathroom door and he moved it to hang over the shower curtain railing at the foot of the bath instead. He closed the toilet lid to put his old clothes on, then paused as his fingers touched the pouch under his shirt. He couldn't unshrink the items inside now that he was in America. Why hadn't he thought of that earlier?

"Bugger." He breathed, leaving his bathroom for the study nook, tugging the pouch out and up over his head before opening it and dumping the contents onto the table there. His cloak caught in the mouth and he had to tug it out. It had been too magical to shrink but as fine and silken as it was it had been easy enough to stuff inside anyway. Following it came his collection of books and pamphlets. His omnioculars hit the desk and bounced as it expanded again to full size - the more magical an object was, the more strongly it resisted changes imposed upon it. Eventually, his books and the pamphlet would change back too but he had no idea _when_ that would be. He quickly tipped the pouch back up when bronze and silver coins began to fall too.

The tiny _Monster Book of Monsters_ gave a high pitched growl and rolled itself laboriously over and over until it fell off the edge of the table. Harry caught it absent-mindedly and petted it with the tip of his thumb. It and maybe his photo album would be the first books to change back to normal size, which might give him a better indication of how long the rest of them would take. He briefly considered just flicking a _finite_ at the lot with his wand - how badly could a simple cancelling charm go, really? - but the thought of having to go downstairs and tell Mr Singer that he'd accidentally set the attic on fire deterred him.

_Shower_. He thought firmly, putting the now-purring book down amongst its less-sentient siblings. _Shower, breakfast, then see what Mr Singer thinks we should do. Maybe it__'d be worth buying an owl right away after all. _

He moved back to the bathroom, closed the door and undressed then turned the shower on, cringing as the pipes _screamed_.

"Sorry." He muttered to his adopted parent who he hopefully hadn't just woken up. "Sorry, sorry."

Eventually he got the temperature bearable and the sound below the pain threshold. It was only after he was thoroughly wet that he realised he had neither soap nor shampoo and he'd left his toothbrush outside in his bag.

"_Bugger it!"_

_Two__'s Company_

Sam sat back in the motel's tiny chair, its padding worn thin and uncomfortable, and listened to Dean fail to sing in the shower.

His big brother could posture all he liked. Sam _knew _him, in all the little ways people just didn't think about. It was how he'd known shapeshifter!Dean hadn't been real!Dean. It was how he knew that Dean was already scared for the end of his life, despite his final year only just beginning.

His brother fought the fear by going out looking for fun. For women, for quirky attractions, for movie marathons and funny hunts and things that would wind his little brother up. To an outsider he might look like he was living large, thoroughly enjoying himself before his clock ran out.

But _Sam knew better_.

And it was killing him to watch.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, long fingers circling out to massage at the corners and underside of his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping well. Even when he had to stop reading because the words were blurring together, he couldn't _rest_. Too anxious, too _angry_, his sleep was so shallow and fragile it may as well not happen at all.

He wasn't finding anything. Nothing that could help. Just stories of the nightmare Dean would be consigned to for all eternity, because Sam had _so. Stupidly. _Turned his back on Jake. Had let his guard down. Had created the situation in which his obsessive big brother had done what Sam had worried he would do ever since Dad had first blazed a sacrificial trail down to Hell.

The motel's stale stench of old smoke make him feel briefly ill, all the ugly aspects of life magnified in his hypersensitive misery. And in the background, behind the hiss of Dean's shower, there was _no_ _singing_.

He dropped his hand with a sigh just as his laptop pinged at him. Another email. God help him, if Dean had signed him up for _yet another_ porn site…

He blinked at Bobby's name, heart skipping in Pavlovian hope. Maybe maybe maybe, maybe _this time_ Bobby had found something. Anything. Something Sam could challenge and beat, or bribe or deal with. Something he could kill - be it them or himself - to _make everything okay_.

He clicked on it.

_**Maybe found a lead. I**__**'ll be on and off the grid for a bit, chasing it down. I'll let you know if I find anything.**_

Non-committal, but a hundred times better than his _last_ email which had been an apology for having found nothing. And best of all, right before the _**B **_that Bobby always signed off with, was the line:

_**I**__**'ve got a good feeling about this one. **_

His heart shook in his chest, hope and fear and relief wrestling with the desire to ring the man _right now_ and demand to know what _exactly_ he was chasing up. It couldn't hurt to have _two_ people looking, could it?

But. If Bobby had wanted his help, or thought it'd be useful, he'd have said. And hell, if it was as promising as it sounded, maybe Bobby wanted _Dean_ kept out of it, so the massive jerk didn't somehow sabotage his own rescue.

Sam chewed the corner of his lip, the skin there already swollen and sore, and sent back a simple confirmation.

Okay. Okay. He'd give Bobby a week. Maybe two. No, one. Just in case. One week, then he'd press for answers if only so he could fucking sleep for a night without hopelessness driving him crazy.

One week.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he checked the online papers around South Dakota. There had to be _something _in the area to hunt…

_Two__'s Company_

"Mornin'."

Harry paused. He'd been moving as quietly as he did at home and Mr Singer hadn't even looked in his direction...

"Good morning." He returned automatically, watching the old man bang pots around the stove and grumble to himself. Had he woken him up with his shower? He looked grumpy. The air smelled of slightly-burnt bacon and combined with the tightly closed drapes gave the kitchen a muggy, greasy feeling.

"Sit." The man ordered.

Harry sat, taking the chair closest to the lounge. Mr Singer clattered around for a while longer, then stomped over.

A chipped, blue-striped bowl was plonked down in front of him, filled almost to the brim with oatmeal. A teacup saucer rattled down to the side, too small for the crispy bacon piled on top of it. Harry glanced up, just as a carton of cupboard milk and bowl of sugar were set down too.

"Uh. Thank you. You didn't have to…" He was waved off before he could finish, the grizzled old man - wearing a cap indoors for some reason - stomping back to the sink to wash the pans. He didn't seem to have made anything for himself.

"You're not eating?" Harry tried.

"Already have." His new guardian grunted.

Whilst Mr Singer's back was turned, Harry tasted the oatmeal. It was oddly salty and way too hot so he quickly poured in some milk and added a spoon of sugar before trying the bacon. It, too, tasted unexpectedly different from the sort he regularly made for his family - but it was _good_. The edges were much crispier, the bacon itself much narrower, and he alternated bites of meat and oatmeal until before he knew it his bowl and plate were empty and his stomach absolutely stuffed.

Weathered hands took the used items away just as briskly as they'd bestowed them and dropped them in the sink.

Harry cleared his throat and discreetly wiped his greasy fingers on his jeans.

"Thank you for breakfast." He said politely. Mr Singer shot him an almost annoyed look, but nodded. He turned the hot water on, replaced the milk and the sugar, then quickly washed up as Harry remained, silent and awkward, at the table.

Shaking himself, Harry put his hands flat on the wood and tried to sound less like the kid he _felt_ like.

"I've brought some books with me, but they're shrunken at the moment. I know I mentioned before that I can't safely use wand-magic over here - it's too unpredictable - so we'll have to wait for them to unshrink in order to be readable. It shouldn't take too long, I don't think. But, until they unshrink - I could answer any questions you might have?"

Mr Singer turned, drying his hands on a tatty dish towel.

"Sounds good." He rumbled, dropping the towel on the counter and opening a drawer. From it he pulled a couple of pencils and notepads, slapping one set down in front of Harry and seating himself with the other.

"Anything either of us can't answer, we'll make a note of. Anything that sounds like it could be something important to know, make a mark next to it."

Harry nodded.

Mr Singer nodded back.

"Alright then. What do you know about Hell?"

The questions came with the force of a broken dam. Harry answered as best he could. Hell? He only knew what he'd picked up from public school and overheard television shows, that it was a place of punishment for sinners - something he hadn't thought was real, not really. Heaven? His Aunt had once muttered to herself that at least 'her freak sister' wouldn't be there, which Harry could only guess meant that witches were - or Aunt Petunia _thought_ they were - excluded from it.

What was the worst sort of magic that could be done? Was there such a thing as evil magic? Like what? How many spells did he know that required sacrificing an animal? How many potions or hex bags needed bone matter? How many languages were spells spoken in? How necessary were wands? What sort of ingredients were common to non-wand magic? What were the requirements for having them? How was illegal magic use monitored? How was magic learned, if not through school? What sort of histories or origin-stories did magic folk have? Where did magic folk go after they died? What sort of after-death magic was there, be it for communication or revival? How did magic behave with non-magic folk? Was it dangerous to use on them? How useful were runes? What were the repercussions of using Dark Magic, besides legality issues? What sort of protections could be placed around their house despite his inability to use a wand? What about blood magic? Soul magic? Sex magic?"

Harry had turned bright red at that last one, but gamely carried on as best he could. Sex magic was dorm-room talk and not so much about sex as a part of magic, but magic to _improve sex_.

The grilling went on for hours, occasionally in reverse order as Harry incredulously questioned how salt could be so powerful against ghosts when he'd _seen_ them plow right through a table laden with salt-shakers, or why they were even so violent in the first place, and by the time they wound down it was well after lunch and Harry's stomach was grumbling as much as his buttocks were aching from sitting down in a hard chair for hours.

Mr Singer stood and stretched with a groan, massaging his hand which had taken a lot more notes than Harry's had. Harry followed him up and twisted until his spine cracked satisfyingly.

A sudden rapid thumping and distant snarl snapped both of their attentions upwards but Harry, quickly realising what it was, headed first towards the stairs.

"The books have unshrunk." He explained as he went, to the man who had turned out to be a very old and grizzled (and male) Hermione on the inside. "And one of them is a bit ill-tempered. I'll be back in mo'."

He took the stairs two at a time, rubbing his backside just as soon as he was out of sight. Next time they held a marathon Q&A, he was going to park it on the bloody couch!

A quick tug had the attic stairs unfolding for him and a few minutes later he was back downstairs - a stack of books balanced between one arm and his chest and a snarling shaking book swinging from the belt strap keeping it closed in his other hand. Mr Singer was back at the stove, making something cheesy with bread that didn't smell very good but he half-turned to stare as Harry dumped his armload onto the kitchen table and got to work soothing the irate _Monster Book of Monsters_.

"You have to stroke the spine." He explained. "A couple of times is enough to get it to stop attacking you, but if you want it to stay open long enough to be read you've got to give it a bit more attention." And also it never appreciated being bound up in a belt, as he simply had to do when living with Muggles like the Dursleys, so _his_ sucking up had to be even more involved than usual.

Mr Singer just shook his head but couldn't quite disguise his fascination, continuing to take peeks over his shoulder as Harry slowly calmed the book down and released it from its bonds.

Harry supposed it was fair enough. A seemingly sentient _book_ was the first plainly magical thing the man had seen, after all. Until now, all of Harry's stories had been just that - stories.

By the time the book was purring contentedly under his hand, the man had finished at the stove and served them both something that looked like a half-burned sandwich filled with melted cheese.

It tasted as foul as it smelled.

Oh well. When in Rome…

He choked the rest of it down as quickly as he could, scalding his tongue twice, and wiped his fingers on his pants again. Hopefully Mr Singer would think he was just hungry, or eager to get on with things.

"If you don't like it, just _say_ so, y'idjit."

Harry glanced up guiltily and swallowed again, trying to get rid of the taste without being obvious. Mr Singer just rolled his eyes and got him a glass of water.

"Thank you." Harry croaked, before drinking deeply. "And it was fine." He added after he'd drained the glass. "Just… different."

"Liar." The man said placidly, before gesturing at the pile of books with his own cheese sandwich. "So what've you got?"

"My herbology, history, potions, magical creatures and divination textbooks." Harry explained. "Also some extra non-schoolbooks on herbology, potions, travel and defence. I left all my wand-work books behind - things like charms and transfiguration, which can't be done over here." After the gruelling morning he'd just had, the books he'd brought now seemed woefully insufficient - but at least they were _something_.

"You shoulda brought the other books anyway." Mr Singer said - not complaining, just commenting. "Even if you couldn't do the spells, there's no such thing as useless knowledge. And we could always go north or south to get out of the no-wand area, if we needed to."

Harry's cheeks _burned. _Why hadn't he thought of that? Merlin, leaving them behind was dumb all on its own simply for the fact that if anyone wondered _why_ he'd left mostly _wand-magic_ books behind, they could narrow down his likely location. Stupid stupid!

He ducked his head. His fringe, kept long so as to hide his scar, also hid his shame somewhat.

He cleared his throat.

"I, uh, brought some wizarding money with me." He volunteered. "It shouldn't be too hard to re-buy them."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference?"

"Between wizard money and real money. Your lot don't use whatever the currency is of the country you're livin' in?"

"Oh. Er. No. The Goblins - there was a war, well, several wars and. Well I wasn't really paying attention, but the gist of it is that all Wizards in the world use the same currency, issued by the Goblin bank - Gringotts. I can exchange my money for mug-normal money, but they keep the exchange rate unfriendly."

"Huh. 'Sat why you're wearin' rags? It ain't worth the cost to get your money exchanged?"

Harry frowned, wanting to be offended but mostly weary. And a smidge embarrassed. He shrugged in lieu of a verbal response. It wasn't the reason why he'd never bothered to exchange money and buy his own muggle clothes, but the _real_ reason was complicated. And embarrassing. It was Ron's jealousy and his own paranoia about the Dursley's greed, and what they might do if they caught a whiff of his inheritance. It was being too young to care at first, then too awkward to do anything but _pretend_ not to care, because to care and not change was to seem a victim or a loser.

"Well," Mr Singer said abruptly, standing again and cleaning up their lunch plates. "I'm your guardian now, and I ain't having people see you like that. Put yer monster book where it can't hurt anything, grab your shoes and start thinkin' about what you need - clothing-wise. An' toothpaste and such, I expect. Food, too. We'll head into town and get that sorted, then tonight you'n'me can do a little book exchange I'm thinkin'."

For a long, _long_ second Harry simply sat there and stared. He teetered on the edge of a Ron-like indignation at being told what to do, told his clothes weren't good enough, at the charity of a stranger. On the other side, though, was a quiet sort of thrill - that someone _cared_ enough to do so, even if it was only because they'd signed a contract saying they would.

In the end, he just choked out something like an affirmative and re-secured the _Monster Book of Monsters _with his belt, taking it upstairs with him to swap for his ratty trainers. He paused with his hand on them. Could he… could he maybe get new _trainers_ as well? Shoes that not only fit properly, but didn't look _or_ smell disgusting…

In the privacy of his room, he let his delight curve his lips into a grin.

Then he went back downstairs and joined Mr Singer in his truck.

_Two__'s Company_

THE EMPIRE, a large sign read, as Mr Singer finally found a parking spot near the entrance. Odd name, for a country so gung-ho on being a republic.

The shopping centre wasn't as flashy as some he'd seen in London before, but it was _big_. Big in a sideways sort of way, rather than the English upward manner. Large rectangles of stone and glass seemed almost plain in the afternoon sunlight. The inside was much the same, not too fancy but flat and wide.

Harry trailed after Mr Singer's determined stride, looking around at a host of stores he'd never seen before. Everything was somehow… very _American_. Advertising was bigger, louder. People were louder too, or maybe the echo was just bad in here. They walked for a good couple of minutes, turning this way and that, until they finally came to a stop outside one massive mega-store.

_JCPenney_ the sign said. From the outside it looked pretty much like the local _Bhs_, in Surrey Quays.

"Aw'right, here's some money." Harry turned to Mr Singer, who was handing him a wad of notes. Harry took it blankly. "You g'wan in and get fitted. Shop smart, though, or I'll shop _for_ you y'hear? Pants, shoes, shirts, jackets - it's all gotta come out that money in your hand and not a penny more, so if I were you I'd check the clearance racks."

The man paused.

"But, still get what you like, I suppose. It ain't no skin off my nose if you wind up having to exchange yer own money come winter."

He nodded at a cafe just outside the large end-store.

I'll meet you right there, inside forty minutes, you understand?

Harry nodded blankly, his hand a tight fist around the wad of notes. He had no idea how much he'd been given. Part of him was glad the almost-stranger wasn't coming in with him. Another part wondered if the man had decided Harry wasn't what he'd wanted after all and would just leave him here. After all, the contract wouldn't be worth much if the man drove home and tore it up.

He shook the thought and, as Mr Singer turned away to glower at the different types of coffee on order, peeked into his hand to see how much money he'd been given. Was it a better sign for it to be a lot, or not too much? He couldn't easily see which it was in any case, what with American money all being so plain and similar, but he spotted a few fifties and at least a couple of hundreds before he tightened his hand again and hurried into the store. A display right inside the door had a plain-looking canvass jacket with a hood 'on sale' for almost eighty dollars, so maybe it wasn't much money after all…

He still couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad.

_Two__'s Company_

Ten minutes into his forty, Harry had a pack of boxerbriefs in hand and nothing else. Everything was so expensive! Was it better to get a jacket, or pants that stayed up? He _really_ wanted some new shoes but if he got some he wouldn't be able to get much else besides a pair of jeans and maybe a couple of cheap t-shirts. How did people do this? He'd always thought he was a bit well-off compared to Ron and his family, but if normal muggles could buy clothing as expensive as _this_ all the time then maybe he really _wasn__'t_.

"Hello. Can I help you."

Harry turned. A girl wearing the store's uniform was staring critically at him, her expression as unwelcoming as her tone. Her eyeshadow was a pretty, shimmery orange but her mascara was flaking badly. She looked over-worked and more than a little suspicious as she eyed his baggy clothing.

He flushed. He'd gotten the reaction from more than one shop keeper in Surrey. He'd always thought it had been the Dursley's stories, but maybe it had been the way they'd _dressed _him. The way he looked.

Delinquent.

He straightened his shoulders and showed the girl his fistful of cash, almost defensively.

"Yes, thank you." He replied, mostly to spite her. "As you can see, I am in rather urgent need of new clothing. This is all I have, though. Could you please show me where the less-expensive items are?"

The girl blinked, snakelike hazel eyes widening at his obvious 'not from around here' accent. Unexpectedly, instead of being annoyed at his demand on her time, she smiled. One of her teeth was chipped, but it still made her look a lot less mean.

"Sure thing, sugar." She drawled, taking a step closer. "How much you got?"

Feeling unsettlingly like he'd just purchased a hooker, Harry waved the fistful at her again. She caught his hand and quickly counted.

"Okay. What're you after?" She let go and Harry took a step back, restoring his personal space.

"Everything." He replied. "Shoes, pants, shirts, jacket. Whatever I can get for what I've got."

The girl stepped back and ran a practiced eye over him. Before Harry could react, she stepped closer and pinched his shirt until it pulled tightly across his body. He yelped a protest but she ignored him, doing the same to his pants before he pulled away completely.

"Relax." She rolled her eyes. "I can't fit you when you're wearing a tent. I thought you were shoplifting, they're so big. But _you__'re_ skinny as heck, aren't you? I like that. C'mon, I'll help you out. It beats cleaning up the racks."

She turned and strode off, Harry following after a moment. She led him to a tiny counter, slightly bigger than a school desk, from which she produced a length of tape.

"No squirming." She ordered. "Or it'll take twice as long. And don't talk to me, I need to remember the numbers." So saying, she stepped _well_ within his personal space and slipped her arms under his, practically hugging him.

Harry went scarlet, but lifted his arms at her impatient nudge and let her take his measurements for fear that doing anything else would cause him to spontaneously combust. He was very aware of her well-clothed breasts pushing lightly against his chest, then very _focused_ on anything and everything _other_ than her kneeling to take the rest of his measurements.

"All done." She said eventually, scribbling something onto a slip of paper at the counter. "You can put your arms down now."

Still feeling the blush in his cheeks but thankfully nowhere lower, Harry did so. Unexpectedly, the girl grinned at him.

"You're cute. You got a girlfriend?"

Harry sputtered, but managed a slightly strangled 'no'.

"Oh good." Was all the girl - Eve, he saw on her nametag, hanging from her shoulder rather than her front - said. After another second of checking her numbers against a laminated bit of paper, she put everything back and shooed him to a different part of the store where she proceeded to load him down with pants and shirts - some absolutely ridiculous, like the one with a sequined lady flashing her bum on it - all of which she dragged out of the depths of racks in the general vicinity of 'clearance' signs.

Just when he felt like his arms couldn't take any more weight, she chivvied him to the shoe department and ordered him to sit. He did so, dumping the pile of clothing to his right. It proved a useful distraction as the girl knelt again to check his shoe size, wrinkling her nose and using the tips of her nails to move his ratty old shoes away.

"Sorry." He found himself apologising. "They're-not mine, exactly."

"I can see that. They're a little too wide and a little too short. What kind of shoes were you chasing?"

"Trainers, please."

"Huh?"

"Uh. Like those? My old ones? Just, better fitting."

"Oh, sneakers. Pssh, _trainers_. You Brits are so weird."

Harry bristled, but Eve was already off hunting him down a new pair. And she _had_ been very helpful… he supposed. He pawed through the pile again. It had only been fifteen minutes and already he had all this. Could he afford it _all_? Some of the shirts were only around three dollars!

Eve came back, three pairs of shoes in hand. One pair was yellow and Harry privately vetoed it immediately, although he tried them on to be polite. She snorted when he reported that they pinched, but tossed them aside anyway. The last two were both dark in colour, one navy with tan stripes and laces that frankly looked pretty cool but which were ten dollars more expensive than the plain black with no stripes and boring laces. Reluctantly, mindful that he still had to get a (probably eighty dollar) jacket, Harry chose the black ones.

After getting the shoes, which Eve insisted he put on right now so 'that bitch Julia' would have to clean up his stinky old pair, instead of being ferried over to the jacket area he was instead pushed to a section marked 'changing rooms'.

"Wait-" He started, only to get forcibly shoved past two older, amused-looking women into the back area where rows of white doors opened into mirrored cubicles.

"No." Eve said implacably. "I picked out things in or close to your size, but different brands are always slightly different sizes, the assholes. You need to try everything on, at least once, for fit. You get started on this lot, throw whatever you don't want over into the next stall, and I'll go get you a jacket. Chop chop! If you take too long, Marie will come knocking to see if you're okay, the perv."

Harry scowled at the door as she left, but closed and locked it anyway. Looking at the pile of clothes dumped onto the little bench, he sighed. He was _already_ sick of clothes shopping and he hadn't even _bought_ anything yet.

Resigning himself to it, he stripped off and got started.

Anything with sequins went over the wall, untested.

_Two__'s Company_

_I__'m sorry._

_Less than a year._

_I__'ll do what I can._

_I__'m sorry._

Albus Dumbledore, alone in his office, sat back in his chair with a long breath out. His withered, dead right hand caught his eye.

He wanted to chop it off. Wanted to burn it away. The ugly, leeching symbol of his onrushing death.

Of all the ways to die, this might be one of the worst.

Slow. Inexorable. Visible. Humiliating. And, always, a reminder of his foolishness. Of his grasping stupidity.

He pulled it deeper within his sleeve and turned instead to the stone lying mockingly on his desk. He'd been so desperate to see them again. Now he'd be seeing them in person, _very_ soon.

But there was still so much left to do.

A hundred threads, never concrete enough to be called plans, only _possibilities. _Threads to be woven together, threads to pull apart.

And, sometimes, threads to cut.

"A taste of my own medicine, perhaps." He observed to his phoenix friend. Fawkes was not his companion, nor his familiar as many had assumed over the years. It was a very human arrogance, to place their own species at the centre of events and assign all else to positions around it - often subordinate.

The truth was closer to the opposite.

The ancient bird tilted its head at him and shook its tail in reproof. Albus smiled faintly, then glanced down at the stone - sans ring - gleaming on his desk. Something he'd once desperately coveted, now repulsed him. But what to do with it?

For now, a tap of his wand made his desk swallow it. Hogwarts would keep it safe, until his head was clearer.

With the hallow gone, only a plain-bound book remained on his desk. It was a ledger of all Hogwarts students. One of his threads had cut _itself_ free, and bound itself into a new pattern. This book was the only record of that change in the world. The only way that thread might be found.

Albus closed his eyes and, selfishly, wished the curse had been instant.

_Two__'s Company_

Bobby had had more than teen modesty on his mind when he'd sent Harry - his new _son_ if you wanted to get technical - to go shopping alone. Frankly, he'd needed the space.

And the coffee.

Because magic.

"What the hell have I done." He breathed into his mug of cinnamon-scented something-or-other. It had been cheaper than plain black, inexplicably.

It wasn't that he regretted making the deal, connotations aside, in theory. Hell no, the kid was an eye-opener and an access card to a whole new world of possibilities. Even without Dean's onrushing date with damnation he might have adopted him anyway, to get access like he had now.

But it wasn't that simple.

The kid was damaged goods, anyone with eyes could see that. He still had spine in him, thank God, but he was like a bonsai growing out of a sheer cliff. Determination, strength and stubbornness let it survive against the odds, but it was unavoidably stunted and twisted by the battle. 'Beautiful', people said, when they were talkin' about the trees. 'Mentally unsound' was the word for humans.

And worse than that, was that the kid still had some growin' left in him. And now _he_ was the cultivator, the parent. It was his job to do his best to make this last stretch of growth make him _stronger_ and _better._ Make him safer.

Him. Robert Singer. With his almost total lack of parental experience, besides herding the occasional Winchester.

And in the background, there was the _need_ to press the boy for answers. The need to drive him - because he was very obviously a 'normal' self-absorbed teen, despite the magic, and his lack of knowledge on his own world was driving him _crazy_ - to _find_ them. But also, behind that? Was the urge to make sure that _his_ need for knowledge wasn't just one more fierce ocean gale, bending the bonsai to its whims. I wanted to not screw this up. Not screw _him_ up. At least, not any further.

He had no idea if it was the contract he'd signed doing the urging, or his own self - and that scared him too. To not be able to trust your own mind, your own instincts…

He sighed, took a crumbling bite of his custard pastry, and glanced at his watch. Another five minutes and he'd have to go in looking for the kid. Maybe he should have given him more money. From the look of him, he'd had absolutely no experience clothing himself - and now he had to do it on a budget and under a time limit.

Yeah. That probably wasn't class A parenting, right there.

Movement, different to the ebb and flow of mass strangers, caught his eye. He glanced up. And blinked.

_Damn_. It looked like the old 'sink or swim' tactic really worked with _this_ kid.

Harry stood before him, dressed head to toe in new gear and carrying three bulging shopping bags. The ratty shoes that would have alerted any monster that he was coming through smell alone had been replaced by a plain new pair. Come winter he'd need a good pair of boots - sneakers wouldn't keep out the wet and cold - but maybe he'd just buy that himself as a present or something. When was the kid's birthday again?

The ridiculously baggy pants had been replaced by snug black jeans, the horribly stretched shirt by a long-sleeved, dark red tee with an unbuttoned black shirt over the top. Harry's free hand kept drifting to them, revealing his discomfort with the style. So then why..?

"There was a girl." The kid blurted, cheeks tinting pink. "A salesgirl. She was - pushy. But helpful. But she said you're not supposed to button it up, I don't know."

Considering it was _summer_, he rather thought it was a case of style over smarts. He didn't need to be a psychiatrist to know that wasn't a smart thing to _say, _though.

"Yeah, that's how I've seen it." He nodded. "Looks good."

He _did_ look good. Still too skinny to be healthy, but miles better than before. Despite it, his new clothes drew attention to certain other aspects his old rags had concealed. Like the thinness of his wrists and ribcage. Like his glasses, so old that they could almost be considered retro and considering the general state of care his family seemed to have provided him with in the past, were very probably worth making sure were the correct prescription.

Realising his thinking had left a long, increasingly awkward silence, he cleared his throat and stood up.

"Well, at least people won't stare at you now. You good to go?"

Harry nodded but, as they began walking - Bobby trying to remember if there was an optometrist in the building - he shifted uncomfortably and lowered his voice to confess:

"I think the pants are too small. But Eve insisted."

_Yeah, I bet she did_. Bobby thought with a small, private smirk. Half a heartbeat later he realised that this kid - _his_ kid, now - had just been catapulted from duckling to (comparative) swan, apparently without noticing, but would quickly enough be the focus of all _sorts_ of 'insisting' by the female gender. And male, the way the world was now. The smirk dropped off his face.

Aw, _**hell**_.

"Well, lemme know if anything falls off." He replied absently, missing the alarmed look his new son shot him as he wallowed in his own misery of fatherhood.

**Two****'s Company**

I hope the clothing store is… acceptable? As a foreigner, I researched via google. The other option was WalMart. So. Yeah. Harry is dressed by JCPenney now. Also, I couldn't decide if he was a boxers or briefs man, so I went with the hybrid option.

And SHUT UP Bobby can totally make bonsai comparisons! He's all otaku for Japan and everyone knows it.


End file.
